This morning, I ran to Indian Rock in Berkeley. I do this once or twice a week - run to the rock, climb to the top, survey the view, climb down and run home. Sometimes there are other people on the rock, and they ask me to take their picture with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background, or else we politely nod and then ignore each other. Today, there was a guy sitting at the top of the rock, so I smiled and then sat down at a respectable distance. Not gonna lie, I had been (moderately) blasting Tame Impala and MIA on my iPhone while running, but I took out my earbuds to listen to my surroundings. Lots of birds, a little wind, the futuristic whir of BART, moving air. Then, the guy behind me pulled out a flute and began to play a simple song. It wasn't particularly prodigious but it was perfect and beautiful because it was real - a man connecting with his instrument, colliding with the air, creating a song on a warm February morning, surrounding me and pulling me into his sonic landscape. A reminder that we can be moved by music in its simplest form. Thanks, mystery man, for your impromptu concert for one.